When I was in Boston, oh, that beautiful city, I bought my first item of what can only be deemed “lingerie” (an interesting item for a single girl to purchase, to be sure).
Kerri found a pair of boyshorts (I hate the P-word) that are grey with deep plum bows on the sides, and a tattoo-esque embroidered heart on the…for lack of a better term…ass, and a beautiful lacy pattern on the front, with a sewed-in tag on the crook of the thigh that says “celebrating yourselves: oddmolly uncorporated.” The edges are trimmed with white lace, and inside, above the embroidered tattoo, is printed the statement: “wonder if i reach you if you don’t listen.”
As if I made them myself, down to the “oddmolly” logo, something I wish I would’ve though of first.
She found them in the sale bin at Anthropologie, so I bought them, marked down from $40 to $10, and tonight, for the first time, I tried them on.
And they’re exquisite.
I stood on my bed to get a better view in my mirror, raised my tank top up to admire how they perch above my ass and sit perky on my ilium. Oh, and they have a drawstring waist. They’re basically begging to be admired, and then pulled off.
I twirled around on my bed, dancing to pretty songs sung by sad bastard girls, unabashidly admiring my body and how adorable my little boyshorts look on me (if nothing else, I have the ass to pull things like this off). I smiled, I posed, and then…I hopped off the bed, took them off, and put on my pajama pants (red with white hearts all over them, cute enough, but dulled down by the Falconer sweatshirt I’m wearing to battle tonight’s lonely draft).
It’s only fun for so long to parade around in my “lingerie” alone. (What really sucks is that I have these new heels that would set off the plum bows perfectly…sigh) Why couldn’t I have found these when I had a willing audience to admire my curves?
Oh, if only your hand was grazing the small of my back again. I can almost still feel it, but like a whisper in the sea, it just gets fainter. If only it was your hand rubbing lotion down my smooth legs, instead of my own. If only it was your body hugging mine at night, instead of the stupid pillow I press against my back to mimic what once was.
It’s bittersweet. Now I can walk confidently down the sidewalk, head up, looking people in the eye. But I won’t run into you on the street or in the champagne aisle at the grocery store. Now I can brazenly strip and appreciate what I have to offer, and dress myself up in pretty things, but the outside world only gets to admire the outside molly. This is a large, empty void of a room, and my music doesn’t come close to filling it. So my catwalks and twirls go unappreciated, even by loud, lovely voices.
At the end of the day, I am surrounded by beauty, most of all, my own, but I don’t have you to share it with. I just have my memories, but they can’t appreciate the person I’ve become, scars and all. My memories are bound to a time and place, like a book is bound to its cover and pages. But the living, breathing me, with blood pumping and cheeks flushed, is wasted on words and websites.
So what do I do? Dance. Keep dancing. Put on my lingerie and dance alone until I collapse.
